


Hanahaki

by concede



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Creepy Ardyn, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Poor Prompto, sick prompto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-13 03:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13561473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concede/pseuds/concede
Summary: Hanahaki Disease is a disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love.Prompto is sick.





	1. Chapter 1

He wakes with a start, dream long-forgotten but the sensation of breathlessness still prevalent. He doesn’t notice that his hand’s at his throat, fingers curled ineffectively, until Noctis frowns at him. “Cut it out,” the prince says, something strange in his tone. Something… worried? 

Prompto’s body obeys while his mind is still reeling, his arm moving stiffly at his side as though he can’t quite remember what to _do_ with it. He settles for stretching languidly after an awkward beat of silence, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish smile while two and a half pairs of eyes (Ignis always keeps at least one eye on the road at all times) become trained on him. 

“Heh,” says Prompto, the epitome of nonchalant. “Guess I must’ve really needed that nap, huh?” 

He’s worked hard for as many years as he can remember, trying desperately to become someone worthy of attention. Old habits die hard, however; when he finds himself at the centre, there’s still a part of him that yearns to _hide_ , concealed behind a thin veil of bright smile and humour for fear of being noticed. 

“I had the most _wonderful_ dream,” he lies, voice wistful. “I was surrounded by chocobos...”

Ignis’s attention returns to the road. 

Gladio thumps him on the shoulder. 

“Don’t get used to sleeping on the job,” he says gruffly. “We already have _one_ sleeping beauty on this road trip and we sure as hell don’t need another spoiled princess to babysit.” 

Noctis huffs but his gaze lingers on Prompto as the blond whistles merrily, carefully avoiding the weight of his stare.

His suspicion is like medicine. It touches an open wound and _stings_ but Prompto knows how it means to heal him. He finds himself immensely grateful and immensely sad all at once, hating himself for being the cause of his best friend’s worry but cherishing the feeling of being cared for all the same. 

Quietly, selfishly, he wishes that Noctis could care for him in the way he so desperately wants him to. 

 

*

 

A few nights later, they find themselves at Three Z’s Motel.

“All right!” Prompto cheers as he throws his bag down on one of the beds. He throws himself down alongside it with a happy sigh. “ _Bath time_!” 

There’s a thick cloud of dust that rises into the air from the old mattress but he’s not deterred in the least. Sure, it’s no Crown City, but it’s more comfortable than camping and – if Gladio had it his way – they’d do nothing else but for the duration of their travels. 

“Yeah,” says Noctis as he perches on the edge of the bed next to him with a wrinkled nose. “No offense, but you could really use one, Prom. Pretty sure that stench alone could take down the Daemons at this rate.”

“Hey!” Prompto protests through his laughter, heart swelling with warmth simply because the night feels _good_. He’s surrounded by his friends and there’s the promise of safety at least for the next few hours. “That so-called stench happens to be my manly musk, bro! It’s irresistible to women!” 

Nevertheless, he hauls himself up and makes a speedy beeline for the bathroom.

It’s not just because he wants to get himself cleaned up (although he really, _really_ does) but because his chest feels suddenly impossibly tight. He grips the edge of the sink and stares hard at his reflection in the mirror, nostrils flaring with each wheezing breath he draws in. 

Keep breathing, Prompto. 

Keep calm.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

It won’t last forever.

He’s coaching himself through it, though it feels different to any panic attack he’s ever known before. The sickness feels all too real this time, all too dizzying. Nausea leaves its roots in the pit of his stomach. Prompto feels it _churning_ , forcing its way up from within like a wilting flower turning itself all too desperately towards the light. A last ditch effort for survival.

There’s something clawing up his throat, something _sweet_ , and Prompto gags. His entire body convulses in a cold sweat, his retching loud and involuntary and counterpoised by the deafening silence outside the room.

They’re listening, _worrying about him_ , and that thought alone elicits a choked sob.

He doesn’t deserve it.

He never has. 

It’s all over in a matter of moments, though it feels closer to hours by the time he stops trembling.

Chest still heaving, Prompto stares dazedly at the bottom of the basin and expects to see bile there, the entire contents of his stomach, even – a delicious meal Ignis lovingly prepared - yet to be washed down the drain.

Instead, he finds only _flower petals_ , seemingly innocuous.

He counts five in total, small and delicate and dusty pink in colour, contrasting the off-white hue of the basin. 

There’s a knock at the door which distracts him, Noctis’s voice carrying through into the bathroom. “--- Prompto?” The handle starts to turn when he doesn’t immediately answer and panic rears its ugly head once more.

“Don’t come in,” he blurts out, his voice an octave higher than usual. “I---” he swallows hard, exhaling a shuddering breath. “I know you can’t stand to be away from me for more than five minutes, dude, but… Give a guy a little privacy, Noct. _Jeez_. People will talk!”

He hears Noctis’s sigh from the other side of the door.

He also hears the sound of him retreating, counts the number of footfalls and anticipates the creak of the bed as he sits himself back down.

“It seems Prompto is feeling unwell tonight,” he hears Ignis say.

“He’ll be back to his usual annoying self soon enough,” Gladio reassures.

“Yeah…” 

Noctis sounds unconvinced but the conversation steadily moves on, talk of weddings and Luna and how long it should take them to reach Galdin Quay… Prompto listens to it only for a short while, ignoring the ache blossoming in his heart as he considers his best friend’s engagement to the Oracle. It only reminds him of the hopelessness of his situation. Noctis was never meant for someone like him.

When he turns back to the sink, he finds it’s _empty_.

There’s no trace of the pink petals but the lingering sweetness in his mouth, a phantom taste that follows him through the remainder of the evening and long into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, Noct?”

Noctis is half-dozing in the backseat of the Regalia, but _that’s_ nothing new. Prompto unbuckles his seat belt, turns and stares at him until he finally deigns to grunt an acknowledgement.

Prompto beams at him. “Mind if we pull over here? I wanna get a photo of the horizon before we set sail.” He’s kneeling on the upholstery (no matter how much Ignis keeps side-eyeing him) arms folded above the headrest as he awaits Noctis’s inevitable approval --- which the other _gives_ , of course, always relenting to Prompto’s puppy dog eyes in the end.

“Sure,” Noctis indulges. “Sounds good.”

Prompto waits for the car to roll to a stop, camera in hand as he ventures out to face the sunset. It’s a beautiful scene, one he truly _does_ mean to capture. The ocean is deceptively still beneath the fiery hues of the sunlit sky, the water reflecting pure amber, and Prompto savours it for as long as he can.

But all too soon, Gladio is shouting for him to _hurry up_ and Ignis is reminding him of the swiftly-approaching night and the daemons that lurk within the darkness. Only Noctis remains quiet, just watching him from the car with curious eyes that seem to speak volumes of unvoiced worry. 

“ _Relax_ , Iggy,” Prompto laughs. “You can’t rush perfection!”

He ignores the weight of Noctis’s stare as he finally takes the photo, returning to the passenger seat as quickly as he can. As the Regalia’s engine starts up, he brings the photo up onto his camera’s screen, only to find that the picture he’d taken was rather _different_ than the one he’d intended to take. 

Rather than capturing the sunset over the ocean, it seemed his focus had drifted to the wildflowers spanning across the grassy hillside; his photo showed fallen petals caught floating in the breeze. 

No sun. 

No sea. 

A hand on his shoulder makes him jump, instinctively hiding his camera against his chest. He turns to find Noctis’s eyes staring back at him, seemingly almost _hurt_ by his overreaction. Prompto is the first to lower his gaze, trying to find a way to apologise without being too obvious about it. Noctis beats him to it. “Hey, uh, did the photo turn out all right?”

“Have faith,” Prompto says brightly. “Of course it turned out all right. _Better_ than all right! Turns out you _can_ rush perfection! Who knew?”

But he keeps the screen well-hidden and Noctis frowns when he finally removes his hand from Prompto’s shoulder, settling back in his seat and staring at the passing scenery dejectedly.

Prompto’s stomach feels knotted with guilt for the remainder of the drive. Noctis has enough to worry about, after all. He doesn’t need Prompto adding his own name to that list.

 

 

The man who introduces himself as an ‘impatient traveller’ tells them: “You’re out of luck, I’m afraid.”

Prompto disagrees.

As it happens, no boats will take them forth to Altissia that night. Prompto hates himself for the relief he feels, how a weight is lifted from his shoulders at the thought of at least one more night spent together. At the other side of an ocean, a wedding still awaits Noctis. But not here and not now.

It’s enough for an opportunistic feeling of _hope_ to fill the cracks, spreading through his veins like ivy.

The setback doesn’t seem to trouble Noctis very much, either. He pays for a hotel room and stocks up on fishing supplies, heading for the lamp-lit pier with Prompto dragging his feet behind him.

As much as Prompto hates fishing, lingering guilt steels his resolve. Noctis has privately expressed his worries about the wedding before. For all his own feelings of inadequacy, Prompto tries not to lose sight of Noctis’s struggles; he’s a prince who wants for nothing on the surface, but beneath it all there are few choices the prince has ever been allowed to make. His marriage to Luna is just one more reflection of that. 

So Prompto sits dutifully at his side, taking a few photos to pass the time while Noctis loses himself in his own hobby. They talk about things, some significant and others inconsequential, and the hurt feelings from the car ride are lost in the overarching tranquillity of the night.

By the time they retire for the evening, they’re laughing and pushing each other all the way along the pier, acting like children once more. Prompto feels better than he has in _weeks_ and Gladio and Ignis share a conspiratorial glance when the two of them stumble into the hotel room in high spirits, equal parts amused and relieved by the sight of them.

 

 

Prompto has always been an early-bird. It’s a perfect contrast to Noctis, who loves nothing more than to sleep all day _and_ all night. Ignis would sigh at his laziness and Gladio wouldn’t hesitate to mercilessly rip him from slumber, but Prompto sees no reason to wake him as dawn breaks. 

Carefully, _quietly_ , he slips out of their shared bed, allowing his gaze to fall on Noctis’s sleep-softened face for just a moment lest he lose himself in the fantasy of it all. He doesn’t resist the urge to take a photo of him snoozing, however; with Noctis’s hair in disarray, it’s hard not to laugh at the sight he presents.

It’s hard not to _hurt_ , knowing he has no right to look and no right to love him.

He runs down the golden coast with a single-minded determination, back and forth until his mind is clear and the crisp morning air fills his lungs. Only, it’s much harder than it used to be. He wonders how out of practise he must be, every breath an exhaustive effort. It’s not been long enough for him to become so out of shape but it’s the only plausible explanation he has for why his lungs feel full of something that _isn’t_ air. 

Prompto stops when the burning becomes too much, hunches over and coughs painfully.

He think of thorns twisting in his throat.

There’s blood on his lips when he lifts his head and finds someone watching him with a thoughtful expression.

The traveller from the previous day.

“Oh, my dear boy,” he says, cloyingly sweet as he helps Prompto stand straight and meet his eye. “--- that cough just sounds… _heart-wrenchingly awful_.” He leans in and Prompto stares at him dazedly, barely noticing how time itself seems to have stopped moving around them. The air is too still and the man’s breath is hot, fanning across his face tauntingly. “I wonder… will Noctis smell it too?”

Prompto feels his face flush hotly, though he doesn’t understand the humiliation rising within him in response to the stranger’s words.

“Smell what?” he demands, his voice choked.

The man smiles at him, saccharine. He brushes lint from Prompto’s shoulders and then takes a step back as the world rights itself around them. “Why, _the flowers_ , of course.” 

He talks like a friend but his eyes… his eyes are dangerous.

Prompto swallows hard, staring at the other and barely taking note of the commotion behind him. His friends are awake, Gladio threatening the stranger and Ignis barely holding him back. Noctis is the first to reach Prompto’s side, however, and Prompto doesn’t resist as his best friend pulls him back. 

“ _Do_ think about our conversation, Prompto,” says the stranger, undeterred. “Perhaps I’ll have my answer when next we meet, hm?”

He walks away with a casual saunter and Prompto calls upon all the strength he can muster to find a smile large enough to distract from the vaguely threatening undertone.

It’s not enough to convince anyone but it’s all he can manage. 


	3. Chapter 3

In his dreams, his body becomes a terrarium. He is fragile glass tiptoeing through life while Noctis stares into his soul from the outside. He observes as the flowers reach full bloom inside Prompto’s lungs, silent and seemingly indifferent to the beautiful display created for his eyes only.

Prompto tries to reach out to him but the thorns have made ribbons of his skin and his bones are a vase not meant to be touched.

He tries to _shout_ but petals fall soundlessly from his lips in place of words.

 

 

When he wakes, dawn has yet to arrive. 

The hotel room is dark and quiet and Noctis’s space beside him on the bed is alarmingly empty. Prompto fears something more than the darkness --- he fears the constant smell of flowers, the cloying floral scent following him no matter how hard he tries to escape it. It lingers, ever-present, in the darkest recesses of his mind, where daemons roam freely and whisper always in the voice of a stranger.

Prompto’s nostrils flare, a subconscious rebellion against the pungent stench which pervades his senses and no one else’s. He breathes through his mouth, listens to the tell-tale sounds of slumber coming from the other bed in the room, and finds the strength to move his heavy limbs at long last.

For Noctis. 

He has to find Noctis.

Despite his resolve, it’s hard to shake the remnants of his dreams. He’s afraid he might shatter. And, as he approaches Noctis on the roof, he’s afraid that when he speaks, he might not be heard. 

“Hey, buddy,” he says, dropping down next to him. “You okay?”

It’s the wrong thing to say and he winces to hear how _upbeat_ he sounds even to his own ears. Insomnia has been left in ruin by the Empire. King Regis has been assassinated and Noctis is without a father. And Luna… who knows? Marriage is the least of Noctis’s problems now. 

Prompto exhales a breath. “Hey, if you… if you wanna talk about it, that’s cool with me, man. And if you don’t, that’s okay too. I just want you to know that I’m gonna be here for you… I mean… We’ll all be here for you. Y’know? No matter what.”

Noctis turns to acknowledge him, his eyes tellingly wet. Prompto falls silent to see his misery so apparent in his countenance. He’s at once stricken but also… _flattered_ … to be allowed to witness something so personal first-hand.

“Prompto…” Noctis begins haltingly. “I---.” 

It’s just his name, nothing more, but Prompto understands. He doesn’t say anything more but forcefully embraces the prince, holding Noctis in a protective embrace while a tidal wave of emotion crashes over them both.

As it happens, he isn’t the only one afraid of _shattering_.

 

 

Their days have become increasingly chaotic of late and their mission is unclear in many ways; every destination is just another vague dot to draw the half-formed lines between. While Prompto would never have wished for – and could never have predicted - any of it, the distraction of everything else at least allows his own inner turmoil to exist somewhere far below the radar.

In a time of war, no one even thinks to question his nightmares. 

He’s not the only one to wake up in cold sweat most nights, after all. Little, if anything, is ever said about it: there’s just an understanding nod permitted before each struggles anew to find repose within the early hours.

His sickness is even easier to hide, if it can even be _called_ a sickness. There’s never a trace of it left behind. And where once he might have thought to confide in Noctis, the ship has long-since sailed on _that_ particular conversation.

How can he even begin to bring it up now when Noctis has so much else to occupy his mind with? How can he burden Noctis with an illness he can’t even prove exists outside his own confused mind? Sometimes, he finds himself wondering if it has anything to do with the barcode imprinted on his wrist… He chases away those thoughts as quickly as he can, however, unwilling to ponder on it for too long. 

He finds a thousand more reasons **not** to tell Noctis with each day that passes.

 

 

They’re mid-fight – and it’s undoubtedly the worst possible situation for them to be in - when Prompto feels it. A sudden, all too familiar feeling of sickness sweeps over him and renders him _useless_. His gun falls from his shock-slackened hand and Prompto can do little else but stand there, unsteadily swaying.

The world slows around him, his eyes struggling to focus as he watches the long swing of Gladio’s sword and sees the blue light haloing Noctis. It occurs to him that he’s not _supposed_ to focus on them; just beyond the battlefield, the stranger stands with a knowing smirk, waiting for him to notice like he has all the time in the world and then lifting a glass to Prompto in a mockery of a toast.

No one else seems to have noticed his presence but Prompto can see nothing and no one else as he finally falls to his knees on the damp grass.

“It’s terribly _fascinating_ , isn’t it?” the stranger says conversationally, passing through the surreal slowed-down scene of battle, entirely blasé, to stand looking down on him. “You love him and yet it is his indifference to that love which is killing you.”

Prompto huffs out a breath which sounds closer to a _wheeze_ , his eyes filling with unbidden tears as the man lifts his chin. The floral smell is overpowering. Prompto can’t even breathe because his lungs are full of flowers again.

“Shall I let you in on a little secret?”

Prompto stares at him, eyes watery and vision blackening around the edges. The man takes his silence as an answer, leaning in close: “Take it from me, a man of – shall we say – no real consequence. This is only the _beginning_ of your suffering, my dear boy. All of it at Prince Noctis’s hand. Now… sweet dreams…”

 

 

It feels like only a second later that Prompto regains consciousness. His eyes snap open and he jolts upright, searching for the stranger but finding only Noctis staring back at him in mild alarm. It takes a moment longer for Prompto to acknowledge the change of scenery; they’re in a hotel room – one that doesn’t look too shabby, as it happens - and the sky outside is dark, telling of many hours having passed between the battle and now. 

He slumps back against the pillows, swallowing the feeling of shame that forms a lump in his throat. “Noct,” he starts to say, his voice thick. Humiliation aside, there’s a more pressing matter at hand. “Did you--- did anyone get hurt?” 

Noctis frowns at him, reaches out and – with such tenderness \- brushes a stray strand of hair away from his face. “You’re an _idiot_ ,” he sighs, and Prompto fixes him with an indignant look. “If you’re overwhelmed in a fight, don’t be worried about asking for help. We’re a _team_ , Prom. We look out for each other.”

“I--- what happened, Noct?” Prompto ventures to ask, tentatively trying to piece together his own memories of what happened with Noctis’s. “I can’t… it’s all a big blur right now.”

“I wish I knew,” says Noctis with a weary sigh. “Gladio was the one who realised you were out cold, mid-battle. You scared us. You scared _me_ , Prompto.” A furrow forms in his brow which makes Prompto think twice about adopting his usual levity. “… I’m sorry,” Noctis continues after a lengthy silence, whisper-soft and yet impossibly earnest. “I should have been the one to notice. You always watch my back. I should have been watching yours.”

“Nah, don’t… Don’t sweat it, man. It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah?” 

Noctis looks to him for confirmation and Prompto smiles convincingly. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I posted three chapters in one night. How's that for inspiration? If you've read this far, I hope you're enjoying it! :)


	4. Chapter 4

The boat sways, cradled in the arms of the Tide Mother as they set sail for Altissia at long last. There’s a faint glimmer of newfound hope nestled safely in their hearts. Like a slow-burning flame, that tentative hope is kindled by the words of the Oracle and the promise of seeing her once more. 

Despite having ample opportunity to take photographs, Prompto’s camera has been cast aside since their voyage began; his hobby has been abandoned this once as sickness ravages both body and mind, leaving him white-knuckled and dry-heaving over the side of the boat. 

The waves lap hungrily at the hull, carrying petals down into the depths of the ocean below... Prompto squeezes his eyes closed, knowing that when he opens them there will be no trace of flowers to be found floating on the water. 

“--- Hey, Prom. How are you feeling?”

He huffs out a shaky breath in answer, an almost disbelieving snort that Noctis should need to ask. “ _Peachy_ ,” he says when he rises for air, opening his wet eyes and even attempting a thumbs up. “Say, have I ever mentioned… I hate boats?”

“Boats, heights, small spaces… am I missing anything?” 

Noctis is teasing him and Prompto wants to be indignant but the warmth that settles in his stomach is soothing in its own right. It takes his mind away from the dizzying nausea, his condition having worsened considerably over the last days. At least he has the excuse of seasickness here. He’s not sure what excuse he’ll find when they reach Altissia. 

“Bugs,” Prompto supplies after a long moment, lifting his head so the two stand companionably looking out at the vast ocean. “Hate ‘em.”

“Yeah. Me too,” says Noctis, leaning into his side. Too close. “ _Icky_.”

Prompto isn’t sure if he’s still talking about bugs or if he’s referring to the sudden onset of yet another bout of useless retching. Either way, Noctis doesn’t leave him alone to his sickness; he stands vigil at his side, even rubbing soothing circles into his back which comfort and torment him both.

 

 

Prompto doesn’t blame Noctis.

He _doesn’t_. 

But the stranger’s words repeat themselves on a loop and he can’t figure out how to hit pause on the tape just yet. He hears those words whenever it’s too quiet. He hears those words every time he closes his eyes at night and sleep evades him --- which, if he’s being honest with himself, is more often than not these days.

Mendacity leaves a sour taste in his mouth but it’s almost a welcome change when everything else is always so sickeningly sweet.

He tries a few times – albeit stumbling, half-hearted efforts – to bring it up when it’s the two of them alone, but Noctis is distracted too. He talks about Luna and covenants and how the days have grown worryingly shorter of late. And Prompto’s distorted sense of self-worth tells him his issues are _nothing_ compared to that. He pushes back all else and commits himself to shouldering some of that weight for his best friend, smiling broadly and making jokes to elicit laughter.

It’s the only strength he has to offer, the only strength he knows to give.

Noctis drinks it in like a wilting flower long-denied water; he turns his face towards Prompto’s dying light and bathes in it that he might survive through the coming darkness. 

How can Prompto refuse him that small salvation?

How can be blame Noctis for doing what he must to survive? 

He can’t.

He _doesn’t_.

 

 

Altissia is stunning at sunset. Prompto can’t take enough photos, the click of his camera a near-constant whir of noise as they navigate the capital (with much difficulty) on gondolas. No one protests when he circles back, wanting to ensure he hasn’t missed anything of interest.

“Nice spot for a wedding,” Gladio remarks with a low whistle. 

“Quite,” Ignis agrees.

Noctis offers no response, though that’s unsurprising. He’s been quiet since his discussion with the First Secretary, no doubt anxious about what awaits them come the morning. Protecting the people of Altissia pales in comparison to Noctis’s own mission. Prompto doesn’t envy him. Leviathan is not known for her sympathy towards men, after all.

They eat and make like tourists for a few hours, each with the knowledge that the capital will not escape its share of damage the next day. They look through Prompto’s photographs and wonder what will remain of Altissia when all is said and done. Will it still be habitable? Will it even be _recognisable_? 

When Gladio and Ignis retire for the night, Prompto stays at Noctis’s side and watches him cast his line for the hundredth time. Noctis isn’t paying enough attention to be able to fish successfully tonight, but that doesn’t seem to deter him.

The pointed look that Ignis gave him before he left is indicative of the fact it’s intentional that the two were left alone together. He clearly wants Prompto to try and talk to him, to reassure him. Prompto knows better than to think there’s anything he can say to make it better.

They sit in silence until Noctis speaks: “When are you going to talk to me, Prom?”

At his side, Prompto stiffens. His hand goes to the back of his neck, his eyes immediately cast downwards to stare into the murky water. Earlier, they’d heard people speaking in hushed whispers about Daemons appearing in the capital at night; now, Prompto almost wishes for the distraction. “Dude, I didn’t--- if you wanna talk, we can talk! Let’s, uh, let’s talk about…” He falters there, searching helplessly for a light topic amidst everything else they were avoiding. “Um…”

Noctis sighs, his fishing rod disappearing in a flash of blue. “You know that’s not what I mean.” He’s unwilling to take the bait of levity; his mood is sombre and his reaction to Prompto’s evasiveness leaves the blond feeling like he’s failed an important test. “You’re my _best friend_. I know when something’s wrong with you. I know when you’re hiding something from me. Prom, I--- I know there’s a lot going on right now. I just want you to know that… You don’t have to act like everything’s okay for my sake. I’m here for you.”

So why does he feel so out of reach? 

“… Noct?”

Prompto’s hand falls to rest on the other’s shoulder, their eyes meeting for the first time in what feels like _weeks_. His avoidance has not gone unnoticed, much as Prompto half-wishes it would. If there’s a distance between them, it’s not one of Noctis’s making. It’s Prompto and his misguided efforts to protect the other from harm. To protect _himself_ from humiliation and heartbreak. 

“Yeah?”

What does some random guy know about them anyway? 

Prompto smiles a little shakily. “I’ll tell you,” he decides. “Everything that’s been going on. I’ll tell you. Just not… not now. You’ve gotta be in top form, right? No distractions. At least, _not tonight_. Deal?”

Noctis relaxes visibly. It’s only as it melts away that Prompto realises the full extent of the tension he’d held. His eyes are softer with acceptance, reassured by a promise of ‘to be continued’ and the quiet implication that there would be more conversations still to come between them.  

“Deal,” he says.

 

 

That night, Prompto’s dream changes.

The glass that once surrounded him _shatters_ , the broken fragments piecing themselves together to create a window of hope. 

Peering through it, he sees a future where Noctis is smiling and a new dawn rises with it over Altissia. He hears his own distant laughter, feels the weight of Gladio’s arm slung casually around his shoulder and tastes Ignis’s warm cooking as it passes his lips…

It’s perfect. _Too perfect_. And that’s when Prompto smells them --- the flowers.

The stranger’s breath – sickeningly sweet – tickles his ear as he teases: “Oh, my dear boy. Tell me, did you honestly believe this is what your future holds? Allow me to show you what _truly_ awaits…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! We just hit 5k words ~ woohoo! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Prompto exhales a shuddering breath, his nerves manifesting as pure energy; he finds himself shifting restlessly from one foot to the other and then back again. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gladio twitch and tries his best to be still. The constant fidgeting is irritating him. The silence is irritating Prompto more. “Uh… hey there, big guy,” he says, acting as though they _haven’t_ been standing in the hotel lobby for the last half hour. Together, but not together. There’s something to be said about being brought together in survivor’s guilt. It’s written in the heavy silences, the way neither one of them can quite meet the other’s gaze.

“Hey,” Gladio returns after a lengthy pause, his voice so strained it sounds akin to broken glass. Hearing it, Prompto winces; he can feel the cut of it, every word a mirrored accusation.

The two of them are alive and well, after all. It doesn’t seem fair for them to be standing, healthy and safe, while two of their own have sacrificed so much.

It occurs to Prompto that perhaps the silence was _better_. The words, few though they might have been, have a rippling effect, disturbing the stillness which has veiled the horror behind a blanket of calm. They stand there helplessly for seconds that stretch into long minutes. Every moment that passes deals a heavy blow, guilt weighing relentlessly down on them. Prompto supposes, between them, he has an upper-hand in this situation. He’s no stranger to feeling useless.

Gladio, on the other hand, doesn’t know how to handle it. The cracks soon start to appear in his countenance. Prompto feels the change in the air as something tangible when the other’s sadness is swallowed back in favour of _anger_. He keeps his head low as if to respect Gladio’s need to release that pent up emotion.

Altissia has seen enough damage between the Leviathan and the Empire that Gladio’s rampage is just another drop in the ocean. It won’t make a difference. It won’t bring Luna back from the dead. It won’t bring back Ignis’s eyesight. It won’t make Noctis recover any faster. Prompto almost wants to _say_ that, wants to raise his voice in a way he rarely does – and certainly never to Gladio – but he knows that’s born of his own grief. 

Instead, he keeps his head down and says nothing.

He doesn’t look up. Not once.

Not when Gladio starts shouting and swearing, cursing every god whose name he knows in amidst his mindless destruction. 

Not even when he _walks out_ , the slam of the door behind him sounding much too final.

 

 

Prompto doesn’t need to be asleep to hear his voice now, the saccharine whispers interwoven with his darkest thoughts. Sometimes, if he’s honest, he can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what isn’t. Everything feels knotted, an endless tangle of vines which ensnare him; the harder he struggles, the tighter those knots become. 

“Allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Ardyn,” the stranger whispers in his ear, though Prompto supposes to call him a stranger is hardly accurate now. “You mustn’t misunderstand my intentions, my dear boy. I mean to _help_ you.”

It doesn’t feel like salvation when Prompto is barely conscious, his head swimming as he stares at the flowers in the drain. Petals alone were kinder. The flowers are more painful. The stems catch in his throat. The thorns draw blood. 

“You’re a liar,” he whispers, half delirious. “You killed Luna.”

There’s no one else in the bathroom. He _knows_ that. But somehow, the stranger is laughing sweetly in his ear and it feels as though he’s there. If Prompto closes his eyes, he can feel the warm breath that makes his skin crawl.

“Yes,” says the stranger. _Ardyn_. “I suppose that’s true. Though why should that mean my intention is not to help you?”

It sounds like a riddle, though perhaps it’s that Prompto’s simply too tired to try and make sense of his words. If there’s any sense in them to begin with. He licks his lips, stares at his reflection in the mirror, and remains silent in a last ditch bid for defiance. He reasons that if he doesn’t answer the voice in his head, the voice should remain silent. 

That night, at least, his method works.

If Ardyn is listening to his thoughts, those words repeating on a loop as he wonders if – on some level – he might be held accountable for Luna’s death, his voice is surprisingly absent. It leaves Prompto with no distraction as he watches Noctis’s sleeping face, brushes the silvery trails of drying tears from his cheeks and wishes he could have been braver. More useful.

He had known what would happen that day down to the last horrifying detail.

He had known because Ardyn had _shown him_ , commanding him like a puppeteer manipulating the strings to watch them all dance at his mercy.

 

 

“Hey, uh… Noct?”

“Yeah?”

Prompto sits beside him on the train, worrying at his lower lip. He doubts Noctis still remembers the conversation he promised to have; it feels like a lifetime ago they made that deal. So much had changed since then, a sombre cloud hanging over them since leaving Altissia. “I’m sorry, man. About… Lady Lunafreya.”

Noctis sighs softly, turning his face towards the window. There’s frost creeping across the glass in intricate patterns, the world a blur as they travel along the rails. “Yeah,” he says eventually, his throat tight. “Me too.”

His hand is curled into a white-knuckled fist where it rests on the table in front of them. It feels only natural for Prompto to reach out and cover his hand with his own, his fingers spilling over Noctis’s and _squeezing_. “I wish I could have done something,” Prompto whispers. “I would have done it, y’know? I’d give my life to save hers in a heartbeat.”

He means it. It comes to him with sudden and overwhelming clarity. The depth of his love for Noctis surprises even _Prompto_ in that moment. If it meant that Noctis would be happy? He would sooner Luna be alive than him. If it meant he would smile and laugh and have a future worth living, then the choice would be an easy one.

The reaction he expects is maybe a teasing scoff, perhaps even a more sincere expression of gratitude. What it earns him instead is a stern look, Noctis snatching his hand and holding it – holding _him_ – prisoner with that discerning gaze. “Don’t say that, Prom,” Noctis says angrily. “Losing Luna… _it hurts_. I don’t even want to imagine what it would feel like losing _you_.” 

Prompto stares at him, lips parted in open shock because he doesn’t understand why Noctis is being so serious about this. He doesn’t understand why the other is looking at him with unblinking eyes, waiting for an answer to a question that hasn’t been asked --- at least, not in words. 

“You don’t… You don’t need _me_ ,” Prompto says, his voice light even as he avoids Noctis’s gaze. He feels like he’s stuck in a loop, the words spinning in circles and making no sense, no matter how many times he hears them. “You have Iggy, Gladio…” 

Noctis holds onto his wrist so tightly Prompto’s sure he’s going to have the finger-shaped bruises there to serve as a lasting reminder. “Prompto,” he says. “ _Prom_. You really don’t get it, do you?”

The simple answer is ‘no’. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand the emotion in Noctis’s eyes or the desperation in his voice; or rather, he does understand to some extent, but it seems incongruous with what he knows about himself and Noctis. He musters all his courage, takes a deep breath and says, “Noct, I---”

That’s as far as he gets.

The train judders to a halt, the world around him slowing down in a way that feels uncomfortably familiar. Noctis’s hand on his wrist is a distant memory as a sudden and agonising pain overwhelms him, his vision blackening at the corners. He imagines he hears _laughter_ , sickly sweet, but the memory is so tangled up in dreams he can hardly say it’s so with any certainty.

 

 

When he finally regains consciousness, he feels disoriented. The world seems to have shifted around him. He’s standing, half-leaning against the doors that lead through into the next carriage, when he becomes aware of his surroundings. Noctis is at the other side of the aisle, his eyes dark and full of an anger Prompto hadn’t expected to ever see there. At least, not directed at _him_.

Somewhere, in the darker recesses of his mind, a sugary voice whispers: ‘Why shouldn’t he look at you like this?’

“ _You_ \---” Noctis snarls, launching himself forward with his weapon drawn in a flash of blue light. 

It startles Prompto enough to retreat, flinging himself through the doors and struggling from that moment on to avoid Noctis’s attacks as he pursues him dangerously closely. “Cut it out, dude!” he pants, voice a higher octave than he would like for it to be. “You’re scaring me!”

He keeps waiting, keeps _hoping_ , for Noctis to come to his senses but it doesn’t happen. Soon enough, there’s nowhere left to run and he’s trapped, being shoved back harshly until his back collides with a door and Noctis is in his face, breathing hard and full of murderous intent.

Prompto can’t quite place what changes.

It’s as subtle as a change in the wind, the breeze pulling them in a different direction than before.

Noctis’s grip slackens, his posture held slightly differently. And when he speaks to him, it’s a discomfiting honeyed tone that sounds nothing like him, even when it’s definitely _his_ voice that Prompto’s hearing. 

“I don’t love you,” Noctis taunts, leaning in too close with the blade still poised to strike at any moment. “I never will. What you are, what you’ve _done_. To kill you would be too much of a kindness.”

Prompto slumps when the blade is gone from his throat, staring wide-eyed at the face of his best friend. “You’re a liar,” he whispers, watching Noctis’s lips curl into a strange smirk. No. Not Noctis. “… _Ardyn_.”

“Congratulations, my dear boy,” Ardyn praises him mockingly, still wearing the face of Prompto’s best friend. Despite his playful tone, he seems almost annoyed by Prompto’s revelation. Or disappointed. “I do wonder if Noctis will be so quick to realise. I hope not… It rather spoils the surprise, wouldn’t you agree?”

The chance to demand answers is lost in a heartbeat. Ardyn dissipates from sight and Prompto is on his knees the next second, retching and sobbing until there are entire bouquets of flowers lining the floor of the train.

But only he can see them.

 

 

When he finds Ardyn on the roof of the train, he expects it to be a trap. He’s cautious as he approaches, gun drawn and finger resting on the trigger as he takes measured steps closer. He should shoot him. He shouldn’t have even hesitated in doing so, but something makes him pause a safe distance away. His hands are trembling in a way they rarely do. Even when he’s scared, he’s a steady shot.

Ardyn appraises him with humour, makes a show of dropping down to his knees and saying: “Oh, please. I beg mercy! Don’t _hurt me_. You have my surrender!” while Prompto swallows hard, almost frozen in place. 

“What’s happening to me?” he finally demands, though they both know – despite appearances suggesting otherwise – he has no real control over the situation. He might be holding the gun but that means nothing in Ardyn’s game. “The _flowers_ … the sickness… You said it was because of Noct. Is that true?”

“Perhaps,” says Ardyn, his sharp teeth gleaming as he smiles wide. “Perhaps _not_.”

Exhaling a shaky breath, Prompto steadies his aim. “It’s _you_ , isn’t it? You’re the one doing this. Messing with my mind. _Why_?”

Ardyn doesn’t argue. It’s frustrating how calm he appears, unfazed by the gun and Prompto’s anger; he seems mostly amused. “You were _made_ to be manipulated,” he says simply. “A failed project by all accounts, but there was always a use for you, my dear boy. It was just a matter of tapping into that potential.”

“Potential?” Prompto echoes. 

Nothing Ardyn’s saying makes any sense, and yet it occurs to him that the other is revealing a surprising amount of information readily. Is he so confident in his scheming that Prompto’s awareness doesn’t concern him? 

“Your conditioning has only _just_ begun,” says Ardyn conversationally. “You won’t remember this conversation when it’s complete, of course. As such, it seems somewhat pointless to bore you with the details. _Besides_ …” he pauses a moment, looking suddenly fearful. “The show’s about to start. I’ve so been looking forward to this part.”

“Prompto!”

Noctis’s voice draws his attention away from Ardyn, head turning so sharply he’s sure he hears the snap of his neck. Relief floods through his veins, the tension leaving his shoulders because he knows – with Noctis there – everything will be okay. He can talk to him about everything that’s been happening, they can figure out what hold Ardyn has over him and how to break it…

The relief he feels is short-lived.

There’s a dangerous look in Noctis’s eyes and it’s only when it’s too late that Prompto realises he’s directing that look at the _wrong person_.

His gun slips through his fingers and Prompto tries to speak, tries to find the words to convince Noctis that he’s making a mistake, but there’s not enough time. He feels the air leave his lungs in a rush as Noctis shoves him and he falls back, eyes wide and mouth agape. 

The last thing he sees before he’s lost to the snowstorm is the recognition in Noctis’s widening eyes.

But it’s too late.

It’s always too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're sailing rapidly through to the end of this little fic, so for those of you who are here and reading this ~ thanks for sticking with me. I imagine the next chapter will most likely be the last :3


	6. Chapter 6

There are moments of lucidity in amidst the delirium; it feels like being doused with cold water. Prompto bolts upright, or at least as far as he’s able against his restraints, and stares at his surroundings in horror. The room he’s in is clinical and unfamiliar, all metal and whirring machinery. What few memories he has leading up to his incarceration are hazy even with this new-found clarity. It’s exhausting to take it all in, his mind and body rejecting the information overload as he desperately tries to cram as much truth as he can back into his brain.

He feels himself slipping, despite his best efforts, losing his tenuous grasp on reality within the span of mere moments. “Ardyn is the enemy,” he says aloud to the empty room, telling himself the most important truth. It’s the one thing he has to remember. Even if all he remembers is this one fact, it’ll be enough to keep Noctis safe. “Ardyn is the enemy. Ardyn is the enemy. Ardyn is the---”

 

 

He can smell flowers.

And _blood_.

There’s no pain with it. He thinks there might have been pain once, but now there’s nothing. He just feels _empty_. Hollow. It occurs to him that there’s something important missing.

He’s standing in a meadow, the twisted stems of wildflowers pushing up through the ribcages of those who are dead at his feet. He stares at their faces, his own void of all emotion. He thinks that he might have known them once but no matter how hard he tries he can’t remember their names. 

He’s not sure he wants to either.

He remembers Noctis.

He remembers that dangerous look in his eyes and the coolness of the blade held to his throat. He remembers fragments of his own fear, his own pain, and understands how all of it is associated with _him_.

Prompto remembers enough to know that he didn’t fall from the train.

He was _pushed_.

 

 

The first time Noctis saves him, it’s a test.

Prompto fails spectacularly.

He should know better than to fall for the cheap trick, but he _does_. He’s so desperate to believe in it. Even with his skewed memories, the constant state of confusion Ardyn has kept him in all these days and weeks, he’s at least able to accept in his more lucid moments that the memories Ardyn has reintroduced are tailored to his own personal agenda.

So when Noctis frees him from his restraints, Prompto is wary for a short while until his instincts tell him to _trust him_. At that moment, all he can recall is the mantra rooted somewhere deep inside, hidden in a locked room where his captor cannot steal it from him: “Ardyn is the enemy,” he blurts out as though he’s afraid to wait even a moment longer lest he forget that most important truth. “Noct, we need to _go_.”

“Ardyn isn’t here, Prompto,” Noctis says. “You’re not making any sense.”

Prompto doesn’t care about making sense. He’s clutching Noctis tightly, wild-eyed and frantic. Perhaps he understands then, on some baser level, that this is one more delusion. He _knows_ that Noctis will fade away, a phantom memory that his fingers cannot keep hold of no matter how hard he tries.

“Please,” Prompto says, his eyes shining with tears. “Please let me go.”

He doesn’t even know where he _wants_ to be.

Ardyn hums thoughtfully, appearing suddenly – but not entirely unexpectedly - in place of Noctis, regarding Prompto with quiet disappointment. “I suppose certain side effects were to be expected in this trial,” he laments. “Alas, I didn’t expect the transition would take this long. It’s a fascinating setback, truly…”

He ponders for a moment, his deliberation exaggerated in his showmanship, and then turns a dial on the strange-looking machine set up by the bed. “Shall we try a stronger signal?”

Prompto doesn’t know what he’s talking about but he shakes his head, realising it’s nothing _good_. Already, he’s falling down to knees, fingers curling tightly in his hair as his brain seems to suddenly short-circuit. There’s no room left inside his head for any coherent thoughts; it’s all white-noise, deafening static flooding his ears and leaving even his senses compromised.

If Ardyn leaves or stays, he doesn’t notice either way. 

He doesn’t _care_ either.

 

 

After that, Prompto loses count of how many times ‘Noctis’ rescues him.

He stops responding after a while. He keeps his eyes closed and listens to the static in his head, supposing there’s a certain clarity to be found in the absence of all thoughts. There’s a strange feeling of detachedness that comes with it; his body no longer feels like it belongs to him. It feels like something strange and alien. And Prompto passes Ardyn’s countless tests, not because he’s forgotten the truth somewhere amidst all the sensory deprivation and delusions, but because he doesn’t _want_ to remember. 

It’s easier not to.

But there’s a spark inside of him, a fire which – against all odds – refuses to be extinguished until the bitter end.

 

 

He dreams of a shining light in the interminable darkness, resilient even in spite of adversity. He dreams of _Noctis_. 

Prompto’s skin is splitting, his mouth stuffed full of flowers, but Noctis doesn’t care at all; he’s careful as he painstakingly removes them, plucks each petal from his hair and lovingly untangles the vines that are slowly suffocating him. It feels so much easier to breathe without them wrapped so tightly around his ribcage.

 

 

“--- that weird machine.”

“Way ahead of you.”

Prompto jerks awake in time to hear the end of a conversation, blinking blearily and stiffening when he takes note of the three men in the room with him. Despite Ignis’s exasperation, Gladio looks all too pleased with himself. He gives the broken wreck of computers and once-whirring machinery at his feet a heartfelt _kick_ for good measure, reassuring himself – and the other’s - that it’s no longer functional.

There’s a lasting silence then.

Not just in the room, but in Prompto’s head too. He listens to the sound of his own panicked breathing, his heart racing as his own thoughts rush to fill the empty spaces left in his mind. It’s too loud and he’s _afraid_ , more afraid than he can recall having ever felt before, but it’s only because he feels that dying flicker of hope daring to live on inside him. 

If this is one more test, it feels cruel on a whole new level.

He can almost _taste_ his desired freedom. For the first time in as long as he can remember, his thoughts are not being shared, broadcast across a frequency of Ardyn’s choosing for him to mock and manipulate.

“Prom?”

Prompto swallows thickly, his eyes brimming with unshed tears as he meets Noctis’s worried gaze. It’s familiar and safe and he wants so badly to trust that it’s real but if it’s not… if it’s _not_ , he’s not sure if it’s something he could ever fully recover from. His mind has been bent and broken in so many ways, held together by only the few truths he could hold onto during that time. Among those truths, ignoring every distorted memory that tells him otherwise, he knows that Noctis is not the one responsible for his suffering.

Prompto wishes he could be certain it’s Noctis he’s talking to.

“We ought to make haste, Noct,” Ignis says before Prompto can respond, interrupting only to be the voice of reason.

Gladio is all too quick to agree. “He’s right. The quicker we get out of here, the better. Your sappy reunion’s just gonna have to wait.”

 

 

No matter how much distance they put between them and that lab, Prompto feels like a part of him is still there. Even as he goes through the motions of ‘escaping’ with his friends, he finds that he’s still waiting for Ardyn to reveal his upper hand and prove that everything he _thinks_ he knows is a lie. 

The thought stays with him long into the night, his eyes wide open as he stares at a stain on the motel room ceiling. Gladio and Ignis are fast asleep in the next bed over. Noctis, however, is awake. Prompto knows because he can feel him shifting restlessly on the mattress, looking over his shoulder far too often to ensure Prompto’s still there.

Not that Prompto blames him.

He keeps expecting that he’ll disappear too, close his eyes and find himself still strapped to that bed with the smell of flowers and the sound of static. Perhaps this is one long hallucination, something his mind has conjured up.

“We had a deal,” Noctis says at last, giving up on the pretence of sleep and turning on his side to properly face the blond. “In Altissia. Remember?” He swallows loudly before he continues. “I should have insisted, Prom. I knew something was happening with you but I let myself believe it could wait.”

Prompto snags his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing until the skin is red and chapped. He wants to ask about Niflheim’s technology, curious and fearful about the strange transmitter Ardyn had used and the effect it had on him. He knows that it must mean something significant, but he’s not sure he’s ready to delve into those secrets just yet.

Instead, he swallows hard and confesses: “I’m not sure what’s real, Noct.” 

Noctis doesn’t understand. 

He couldn’t _possibly_ understand. 

Perhaps one day Prompto will tell him, but now’s not the right time. 

Noctis hums thoughtfully, reaching out and carefully pushing back a wayward strand of blond hair. The touch is kind and Prompto exhales sharply, watching him intently all the while. “ _This_ is real,” Noctis whispers, closing the distance between them to place a tender, unhurried kiss to his lips. “You and me. We’re real, Prom.”

Prompto is frozen for that first kiss, but when Noctis kisses him a _second_ time, a coaxing press of his lips, he steadily thaws. “You don’t love me,” he says in something of a daze, almost accusatory.

Noctis props himself up on his elbow, one eyebrow arched and visibly flustered. “Who told you that?” he demands. Prompto, despite the situation, almost wants to take a photograph of that haughty look, his lips curling into a smile he hasn’t worn in too long. 

“So you _do_ love me?” he asks instead of answering, watching with a startled laugh as Noctis’s entire face turns a fetching shade of tomato red in seconds flat. 

“Of course I do,” Noctis huffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist getting this final chapter up. It's been a fun ride! :3
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read this far! 
> 
> Congratulations, you made it to the end of my rambling and - as a reward - you probably have more questions than there are answers :D


End file.
